


Start me off and watch me go

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blow Jobs, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Gym Porn, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn Friday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know Dean Smith had a home gym.  Ergo, this must have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start me off and watch me go

**Author's Note:**

> An AU placed within episode 4x17 'It's A Terrible Life.'

"Push it harder, Dean. Up, strong—yeah, just like that."

Sam's eyes are focused on Dean's face and upper body, his irises shadowed by the fringe of hair hanging over his forehead.

"Bet you're feeling it now, huh?"

With Sam straddling the weight bench above Dean's head, spotting the bar, Dean can dig deeper—force his muscles into that extra burn for five more reps. His fingers curl around metal, black training gloves protecting his palms. Sam's hands hover steady between the bar and Dean's chest, moving with him, as if he's helping Dean bench press up without touching. Sam counts, slow and even with the repetitions, in time with Dean's exhales.

"Two more, Dean. _Harder_."

His chest is tight, sweat gathering at his temples and on his forehead. Sam is so close he doubles the heat swirling around and in Dean's body.

"Come on, one more." A last heave up and Sam catches the bar before Dean's arms sag and give out. "Nice, man. That's ten more than you managed last week."

Dean's limbs turn to post-work out jelly, squishy and fluid under his skin. He needs more than a minute to catch his breath—the home gym equipment in his apartment had never gotten so much use before Sam Wesson salted and burned his way into Dean's life. Sprawled on the bench, he looks up and up at Sam's grin.

"You...are evil," he says in the space between breaths.

"But it's better, isn't it?" Sam bends at the waist, torso leaning on the metal bar and palms flat on Dean's chest—feeling, shaping over new, hard muscle. Dean fills out his crisp shirts better these days, graceful lines under expensive fabric. "No more fad diets or rabbit food. Just a good hard sweat and that rush of endorphins?"

"Yeah. Better." But endorphins aren't what's rushing through Dean as the soft material of Sam's shorts whispers against his cheek. "I could stand a little more cardio, though."

Sam's brow scrunches for a second—the man has _the_ most expressive forehead Dean's ever seen—before his hands start massaging deliberately, fingers skimming over the points of Dean's nipples. He bucks in spite of his exhaustion, as much at the mercy of those hands now as he was five minutes ago. Dean can't sit up under the pressure, stays down but lets his hands wander down the backs of Sam's thighs.

Sam's body is mostly cooled down from his own work out, but Dean knows just how to warm him up again. A drop of sweat leaves a slick little trail down the inside of Sam's leg—Dean's tongue interrupts gravity and catches it, tasting all the places on Sam's body it passed on the way down. Tang and salt. Bitter and arousing. Makes him want more.

Dean doesn't bother removing the gym gloves when he pulls down Sam's shorts. The white lines of Sam's jock curve down and around his groin like a road-map for where Dean's tongue wants to be. Sam pulls that off himself, leaving only his tank, stretched thin to accommodate Sam's ridiculously toned physique. Slightly bent at the knees, the wide girth of his cock bounces so close to Dean's face he can feel the air shift over his cheeks.

"This wasn't what I meant when I said 'save it for the gym.'"

It doesn't look like Sam's listening, eyes on Dean's mouth as it forms the words. 

"Yeah it was." So cocksure, straightforward. He may be a little right—Sam in khakis and a canary polo had nothing on the _Mr. Wesson_ Dean liked to conjure up during long office hours: Sam in tight running shorts, long legs flexing and extending as he—

Sam's cock slips wet down Dean's cheekbone, warm precome mixing with the sweat—easily pulls Dean out of his memory.

They slide at the same time—Sam forward, Dean back so his head is at the end of the bench, right between the vee of Sam's thighs. Sam moves, rubbing his cock over Dean's lips, pulling back when Dean opens and lets his tongue sit over his lip. Sam thrusts again, gentle and slow, so Dean's tongue can savor every inch from tip to the soft skin stretching between Sam's balls. More solid contact as Sam gets a full taste of Dean's mouth. When Dean gets frustrated with the tempered, easy pace, he twines Sam's tank around his knuckles and pulls him down, sucks the head of Sam's cock into his mouth, bulging his cheeks.

Sam can't even talk—mouth open, but only little sounds escape. A feat considering that sometimes, Sam never shuts up. Dean's immensely pleased with himself up until Sam wrenches his lower body away.

"Sam—"

"Stay there," he says tersely, few words needed to pin Dean to the bench. Sam comes around to Dean's knees and swings a leg over the bench, naked thighs squeezing the blood towards Dean's dick, and wastes little time stripping Dean below the waist.

"Let me up." The bench is too hard against Dean's back—he needs to be _closer_ to Sam.

"Stay, Dean." Less a request this time, and Dean's stuck. But not completely immobile. Getting a grip on Sam's shoulder, he jack-knifes up, Sam now in his lap, and grinds against him. "Just couldn't wait, huh?"

"Got me all worked up." What the hell does Sam expect? Hot and bothered doesn't translate into the long, slow tease Sam's fond of—Dean makes that clear when he grabs Sam's cock next to his, gliding his hand down and up their flesh. This—the way his body fits around Sam's—goes beyond good. Natural, like they've been doing this longer than a few weeks. Like a little voice whispering in his ear, telling him exactly how to touch Sam. Dean tucks that idea far away in his mind as the two of them topple off the bench and onto the floor.

Elbows and hips land awkwardly, bone a sharp sound hitting the wood. No matter how well Dean grapples, how much stronger he's gotten in the last month, Sam lays him out flat in under a minute. Not skills he'd expect a tech support guy to have, but they do the trick.

"Maybe a few more reps next time, huh?" Sam taunts, shimmying up between Dean's thighs so they're hot and close again. "Get you all trained up. I don't want to hunt ghosts with a guy who can't _handle_ himself."

"Fuck you."

Sam laughs. "Maybe later."

"Dick."

"Asshole."

"My thoughts exactly."

Then Sam kisses him, probably to shut him up, and it works splendidly. Hard as the workout they'd just been through, biting and fierce. Dean can't wait and he lets that fire loose, burning into Sam. They ride the grooves of each other's hips, lick the sounds out of each other's mouths. Dean curses the gloves he's still wearing, one more layer separating him from Sam. Makes no difference when Sam levers and gets a hand between them, fist-fucking them both. Dean feels Sam go shaky first, jerking down into him. The _sounds_ Sam is making, teeth bared against Dean's throat, send Dean into spasms right after Sam.

Their come splatters and mixes on their hips, tank bottoms dragging through the mess. Sam goes boneless atop Dean, unmindful of his mass crushing Dean's chest. It's too warm, too heavy, and Dean smacks at Sam's shoulder when his softening cock goes from sated to sensitive.

"I don't want to move."

"Such a fucking girl," Dean complains, shoving Sam to the side. "No cuddling on my hardwood."

"No cuddling, period," Sam amends, and that's not quite true. Dean's woken up in those Sasquatch limbs and liked it. At least, for ten minutes until he manned up and knocked Sam off of him.

Sam hauls himself up, stripping his tank to wipe his stomach. He's naked and sweaty, comfortable in Dean's apartment like a permanent fixture—an easier thing to accept than a lot of what has been thrown at Dean recently. Monsters exist, ghosts are real and usually homicidal, and Dean would bet good money demons and vampires get their kicks in, too. But if they're all real, then so is Sam, and Dean has no intention of wading any deeper into this spirit-world, supernatural crap without him. Period.

"You coming?" Sam jerks his head towards the master bedroom where Dean's dual-headed, steam shower awaits.

Dean's right up after him. "Hell yes."

 

FIN.


End file.
